A Parody Anthology

THE POETS AT TEA

1. – (Macaulay, who made it)POUR, varlet, pour the water,The water steaming hot!A spoonful for each man of us,Another for the pot!We shall not drink from amber,Nor Capuan slave shall mixFor us the snows of AthosWith port at thirty-six;Whiter than snow the crystals,Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,More rich the herbs of China's field,The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;For ever let Britannia wieldThe tea-pot of her sires!2. – (Tennyson, who took it hot)I think that I am drawing to an end:For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,And a great darkness falling on my soul.O Hallelujah!.. Kindly pass the milk.3. – (Swinburne, who let it get cold)As the sin that was sweet in the sinningIs foul in the ending thereof,As the heat of the summer's beginningIs past in the winter of love:O purity, painful and pleading!O coldness, ineffably gray!Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,And take it away!4. – (Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it)The cosy fire is bright and gay,The merry kettle boils awayAnd hums a cheerful song.I sing the saucer and the cup;Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,And do not make it strong.5. – (Browning, who treated it allegorically)Tut! Bah! We take as another case —Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I placeReliance on trade-marks, Sir) – so perhaps you'llExcuse the digression – this cup which I holdLight-poised – Bah, it's spilt in the bed! – well, let's on go —Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were toldThe sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?6. – (Wordsworth, who gave it away)"Come, little cottage girl, you seemTo want my cup of tea;And will you take a little cream?Now tell the truth to me."She had a rustic, woodland grin,Her cheek was soft as silk,And she replied, "Sir, please put inA little drop of milk.""Why, what put milk into your head?'Tis cream my cows supply;"And five times to the child I said,"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?""You call me pig-head," she replied;"My proper name is Ruth.I called that milk" – she blushed with pride —"You bade me speak the truth."7. – (Poe, who got excited over it)Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!Oh, from out the silver cellsHow it wells!How it smells!Keeping tune, tune, tuneTo the tintinnabulation of the spoon.And the kettle on the fireBoils its spout off with desire,With a desperate desireAnd a crystalline endeavourNow, now to sit, or never,On the top of the pale-faced moon,But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,Tea to the n – th.8. – (Rossetti, who took six cups of it)The lilies lie in my lady's bower(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),They faintly droop for a little hour;My lady's head droops like a flower.She took the porcelain in her hand(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);She poured; I drank at her command;Drank deep, and now – you understand!(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)9. – (Burns, who liked it adulterated)Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,Whusky or tay – to state my mind,Fore ane or ither;For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,And gin the next, I'm dull as you,Mix a' thegither.10. – (Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a minute)One cup for my self-hood,Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.Barry Pain.

THE POETS AT A HOUSE-PARTY

(A modern mortal having inadvertently stumbled in upon a house-party of poets given on Mount Olympus, being called upon to justify his presence there by writing a poem, offered a Limerick. Whereupon each poet scoffed, and the mortal, offended, challenged them to do better with the same theme)

The LimerickA SCHOLARLY person named FinckWent mad in the effort to thinkWhich were graver misplaced,To dip pen in his paste,Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.(Omar Khayyam's version)Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think,Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste,Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?(Rudyard Kipling's version)Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;Would you rather – stop and think well —Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink pen?(Walt Whitman's version)Hail, Camerados!I salute you,Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather-duster.What is an aborigine, anyhow?I see a paste-pot.Ay, and a well of ink.Well, well!Which shall I do?Ah, the immortal fog.What am I myselfBut a meteorIn the fog?(Chaucer's version)A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinkeHer penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,"Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel,I'm wyse enow to know – too wyse to tel."(Henry James' version)

She luminously wavered, and I tentatively inferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, though with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental consciousness stole a re-culmination of all the truths she had ever known concerning, or even remotely relating to, the not-easily fathomed qualities of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after all, it might not be only a dubitant problem.

(Swinburne's version)Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,This luminous paste-brush of thine?Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?Or shall I – abstracted, unheeding —Swish swirling this pen in my haste,And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,Just jab it in paste?(Eugene Field's version)

See the Ink Bottle on the Desk! It is full of Nice Black Ink. Why, the Paste-Pot is there, Too! Let us watch Papa as he sits down to write. Oh, he is going to paste a Second-hand Stamp on a Letter. See, he has dipped his Brush in the Ink by Mistake. Oh, what a Funny Mistake! Now, although it is Winter, we may have to Endure the Heated Term.

(Stephen Crane's version)I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,And I sawRanged in solemn row before me,A paste-pot and an ink-pot.I held in my either handA pen and a brush.Ay, a pen and a brush.Now this is the strange part;I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,Glad, exultant,BecauseThe choice was mine!Ay, mine!As I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire.(Mr. Dooley's version)

"I see by th' pa-apers, Hennessy," said Mr. Dooley, "that they'se a question up for dee-bate."

"What's a dee-bate?" asked Mr. Hennessy.

"Well, it's different from a fish-bait," returned Mr. Dooley, "an' it's like this, if I can bate it into the thick head of ye. A lot of people argyfies an' argyfies to decide, as in the prisint instance, whether a man'd rayther shtick his pastin'-brush in his ink-shtand, or if he'd like it betther to be afther dippin' his pen in his pashte-pot."

"Thot," said Mr. Hennessy, "is a foolish question, an' only fools wud argyfy about such a thing as thot."

"That's what makes it a dee-bate," said Mr. Dooley.

Carolyn Wells.

AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS

(In the original)MARY had a little lamb,Its fleece was white as snow, —And everywhere that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go.(As Austin Dobson writes it)TRIOLETA little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat,And wherever she went it wanted to go;A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.(As Mr. Browning has it)You knew her? – Mary the small,How of a summer, – or, no, was it fall?You'd never have thought it, never believed,But the girl owned a lamb last fall.Its wool was subtly, silky white,Color of lucent obliteration of night,Like the shimmering snow or – our Clothild's arm!You've seen her arm – her right, I mean —The other she scalded a-washing, I ween —How white it is and soft and warm?Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender,Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,That passionate lambkin – her soul's heart delighting —Ay, every place that Mary sought in,That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.(As Longfellow might have done it)Fair the daughter known as Mary,Fair and full of fun and laughter,Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,Owned him all herself and solely.White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi —The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.Hither Mary went and thither,But went with her to all places,Sure as brook to run to river,Her pet lambkin following with her.(How Andrew Lang sings it)RONDEAUA wonderful lass was Marie, petite,And she looked full fair and passing sweet —And, oh! she owned – but cannot you guessWhat pet can a maiden so love and caressAs a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat,And mud upon his dainty feet,And a gentle veally odour of meat,And a fleece to finger and kiss and press —White as snow?Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,As she sauntered on, there at her feetShe would find that lambkin – blessThe dear! – treading on her dainty dress,Her dainty dress, fresh and neat —White as snow!(Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea)VILLANELLEDewy-eyed with shimmering hair,Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,For her pet was white as she was fair.And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,To tangle her fingers in, where they could be(For her pet was white as she was fair).Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.Th' impassioned incarnation of rare,Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,And her pet was white as she was fair.Wherever she wandered, hither and there,Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.A. C. Wilkie.

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Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.